hold on to your gold
by likeglory
Summary: [2/14] Damon Salvatore has definitely not been chasing Bonnie Bennett across the United States for over a century. Definitely, absolutely not. Whoever said that made it up. (It's not like he has any proof to back him up, but he swears that he never actually tries to find her. It just sort of happens.)
1. March 3rd, 1859

**A/N: **Thank you Heaven for being my beta reader. Lyrics from Chelsea Wolfe's "Gold" were influential, and also serve as the title.

This is going to be a long author's note, but I think it's necessary. There are some things you should (probably) know before you start reading: this is my first TVD fic. I've never wanted to write a fic for this fandom or join it or watch the show until bamon found its way across my dash and this is the result. This is also an AU. It doesn't really follow canon; I mean, it kinda _sorta_ does but it actually doesn't. Also: this fic was originally supposed to be one giant fic, with no separate chapters at all. But there are going to be 14-16 parts/sections to this fic, and I figured it'd be easier for everyone (including myself since I haven't I'm currently writing the 8th part) if it was in chapters. The chapters are meant to be nonspecific and I'm down with ambiguity and vagueness and leaving implications for the reader to make and basically I'm terrible (and i'm not saying all of that is actually going to happen/occur . . . it might but i'm just warning you ahead of time) but I figured why not. Each chapter will take place in a different year, and there will probably be some unexplained things and I'm not sure how this will turn out but I hope it goes well? Maybe? I guess we'll see?

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><p><em>(<em>_ **introduction** __)__  
>March 3rd, 1859<em>

There's a knock on her door, harsh and loud. It breaks the silence that fills the little house, the silence that worms its way into dark corners and sits comfortably on dusty shelves next to bird bones and old, melted wax.

It also breaks Emily's concentration. In response to the noise, she lifts her eyes from her grimoire. Visions of dark leather, cherry and oak wood furniture, and blood spattered across dried leaves fall away, and she is in her own body again. She is alone in the candlelight. Inwardly, she curses. She's finally, _finally_ mastered the spell Sheila told her about, the spell that would allow her to slip out of herself and into things yet to be seen and heard and said and done. She'd seen the past, and she'd seen the future.

She'd seen an eerily familiar young woman laughing with her fingers stained in ink. She had seen herself cast a spell. She had seen herself tucking the last of her life that was kept in her mortal body into the fingertips of someone who needed it most, someone she would, could, should, _knows_ she needs to protect—

She waits, and waits, and waits, but she hears no telltale creak of the steps or a voice outside her door. She inhales and closes her eyes again. _Focus. _She needs to focus, needs to search for the way to slow her steady heartbeat down, needs to ignore the low burning of the candles.

She exhales, slowly, and closes her mouth. She denies her body its need of oxygen in favor of holding her breath and closing her eyes, allowing the heat of the fire and the feel of the garden and the empty quiet to slip away.

In their place, she sees colors. Vivid, lively, _dancing_ colors—colors that leap and dive and twist before her eyes, twisting slowly and fluidly into indistinguishable shapes.

Emily can taste ghosts' blood on her tongue. She can taste that and she can taste dirt and she can taste the bark from an oak, and she can see someone running. They're cresting a hill, and then they're stumbling headlong into a forest, a lush, dense, _beautiful _forest, whose greens and browns are so dark, and so light, and so very _real. _It makes her eyes hurt.

This is the first time any of these visions have felt _real_. She can feel the breeze on her skin and the dead leaves underfoot—

She watches the distant figure pull clouds over the sun with their fingers twisting by their sides, wrists flicking in undetermined rhythmic patterns. She watches clouds heavy with rain and thunder blot out the sun in response. As they take away the last of its golden rays, she catches sight of another.

This one is taller, this one is leaner, and this one is the one who tastes blood on their tongue. This is the one who pursues the shorter one who can twist the clouds high above their head with barely a thought or a murmur of a spell. Alarm rises up in her like the wind picks up in a storm, but she pushes it down and concentrates.

She can hear laughter, she can hear wordless taunts, she can suddenly see towering buildings by a creek and she can see the one who crested the tall, green hill with their eyes closed and their mouth open. She can see them but she does not _know_ them. She cannot recall their name or distinguish their features or even the color of their hair. All she can see is two human-enough hearts beating in a bustling town square—

Her eyes fly open, only seconds before there is another knock at her door. It's softer this time.

The vision falls away; the interruption has called her back to the present. Her skin feels cracked and dry; compared to where she'd been, the house she lives in looks faded and old. It's dull to her eyes.

"Hello?" a voice calls. She can see the door handle turning slowly. "Is anyone there?"

Emily watches, tense in the candlelight as the door creaks open. In steps a figure from the dark, short, with their small hands clutching at the wood, footfalls light on the floor. They step inside, and close the door softly behind them.

With only a glance to the fire, the flames soar upward for only a brief moment, but it is enough to illuminate the face of the one who would _dare_ to enter her home so early in the morning, on today, of all days—at this time, of all times.

The corners of her mouth twitch upward. Her eyes find familiar, kind eyes, strong hands, and thin wrists.

She had not been expecting this.

Slowly, she stands, smoothing her skirts as she straightens her spine and steadies herself by firmly planting her bare feet on the floor.

With a small smile, Emily holds out her hand, and says, "Hello, Bonnie."


	2. August 11th, 1869

**A/N: **I hope that updates can occur at least once a week. Remember, this fic was supposed to be written as a whole, one chapter thing, which explains why the chapters are (mostly?) under 2k words. Thank you for reading.

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><p><strong>Part I.<strong>  
><em>August 11th, 1869<em>

Damon is hungry.

Stefan is off on some adventure with blood trailing behind him like a dog tracks mud into the house from the yard. He is (presumably) somewhere in northern Massachusetts, going through bodies like a spoiled child goes through toys, and Damon is here.

Damon's been looking for bite, and, ah, well—

He's certainly _found_ someone to bite.

The young woman he tried to kill is standing in front of him. The slopes of her shoulders are smooth and relaxed, she's standing up straight, and the smile she's giving him is grim. It's not an expression that's often seen on a person's face right before they're about to die. But that's not what has him staring at her like she's a whole other species.

What _really_ holds his attention is the complete and utter lack of fear this girl has. There is none in her eyes or in the way she holds herself still under the soft glow of the moonlight.

Damon had been walking this dirt road for nearly an hour, searching for unsuspecting farmhouses, in which unsuspecting residents could let in a _poor, lost man _who was left for dead on the side of the road by a gang of horrendously _horrible_ and murdering _robbers_.

(Now, he knows that it's wrong, but when he's hungry, he doesn't _care_ what's wrong. He doesn't care about anything except feeding the hunger inside of him.)

But then he'd come across _her_, muttering under her breath, muttering in a language he did not recognize. She'd been bent over, reaching for something on the ground, when his hunger overtook any sense of wonder he had about this stranger in the night. He'd leapt forward, hands aching to twist and break and tear, and he'd sunk his teeth into her throat for all of three seconds before she'd sent him stumbling backwards.

Her eyes are hard, her expression fierce. But her stance is relaxed still and, to his dismay, he can see the two puncture wounds he made closing up, the freshly spilled blood he still tastes on his tongue drying before his very eyes.

No. _No_. He found her alone, she's supposed to _die_—

"You shouldn't have done that," she says, voice steady and quiet.

Damon stares at her, partly in wonderment, partly in incredulity, because he is a _vampire_. He can tear her, and anyone else, limb from limb without blinking an eye. He is a vampire, his human likeness improved upon with enhanced strength and speed; he is left to wander in shadows in the same way he feels somehow obligated to follow his brother across the country as the seasons pass him by like a stream over the rocks at its bottom. He simply stares because she has _survived him_.

He doesn't know if he should be aggravated or angry, but he knows that the blood in his mouth tastes too good to let go of.

He also doesn't know who she is. She may not be quaking in her boots, but she's not so frightening, and she's currently making no moves against him. All she did was shove him away from her with a push of her hands that had called the sharpest, iciest wind he'd ever felt to put distance between the two of them. She's not _that_ impressive.

Damon takes a step forward, eyes locked on the dried blood on her throat, the blood that's stained the collar of her dress and has created matted clumps in her hair. He wants more of it—all of it. "Now, I'm going to forgive you for pushing me back, but you have to understand that—"

The woman narrows her eyes, and in response, pain rips through his skull, like a red stain spreads on a white shirt. It feels like she's splitting it in half, and it is _agony_. He can only keep his mouth clamped shut for a few seconds before he lets loose a scream and his knees lock. He falls to the ground, holding his head in his hands.

"No," she says, stepping forward. The pain is instantly gone, but it still leaves reeling. The _echo_ of the pain is still there, but he wouldn't dream of telling her that. He tilts his head back to meet her eyes to find her frowning down at him. "_You_ shouldn't have done that. If I ever see you again—"

The pain is back, and it is blinding, but before a scream can tear its way out of his throat, it's gone, just like that. When he opens his eyes, he finds that so is she.

Gone, just like that. He is alone in the road.

Damon lets his head fall back against the ground. He's now annoyed, developing a curious headache that feels like it's going to be long lasting, and, let's not forget the worst thing of all:

He's still hungry.


End file.
